The Battlefield Chronicles
by fishtank
Summary: Catch the killer, and you get to live; let the killer catch you, and you die. It's quite the simple affair, really. —Ciel, Sebastian


**title: **the battlefield chronicles.  
><strong>author: <strong>fishtank.  
><strong>fandom: <strong>kuroshitsuji.  
><strong>for: <strong>kiddo. because it's your birthday; because you're a babe; because you're a fag for kuro; and because i lav you to the ends of this earth. enjoy, bby. c;  
><strong>notes: <strong>slightly au. slightly ooc. what of it, you've been warned.

**disclaimer: **i don't own kuroshitsuji.

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**PART ONE.  
><strong>_victim_.

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London's skyline was still.

Hazy orange sun-shafts pierced the muddy grey of the clouds in the usual sunrise patterning, dots of light settling intrusively in the eyes of sleepy Londoners on the streets, or still nestled between their satin sheets, depending on who, exactly, they were. Frost scattered the grass in Hyde Park; those who were unfortunate to be outside on such a cold morning had dragon's breath, vaporous, and stunningly obvious on the cold air. Ladies in tight-fitting coats complained of the sudden winter weather under cover of their umbrellas, and gentlemen in tall hats, hurrying to work on time, bowed their heads dignifiedly against the gentle, yet biting December breeze.

A feeling of heavy discomfort hung over the city, like smog. Everyone who was already up and about had seen the newspaper headlines, and they were all the same, this morning — those who were still inside would know soon enough, and by lunchtime, the entirety of London would be perfectly informed of the previous evening's gruesome events.

**GIRL, 14, MAULED TO DEATH **

— read the front pages. Many were accompanied by a graphic picture of the young woman's body, from which parents were shielding their children's eyes. The boy selling papers on the corner of Leicester Square took the money from a customer, and winced as he passed over the broadsheet. "Gruesome, that. Sad as well, ain't it?"

The man, a stern-looking gentleman with a large moustache, hesitated, before nodding sympathetically at the grimy boy, "I suppose it is, yes."

The newspaper seller jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Only 'appened a couple streets away, as well, d'int it? Scary thought, that, knowin' there's a murd'rer on the loose in these parts o' London."

The man nodded in return, somewhat embarrassed, and hurried away, the newspaper tucked neatly under his arm. He spared a glance to where the newsboy had pointed; even from across the square, the man could see a dozen policemen patrolling the area, and that was streets away from the actual murder scene. Whatever had actually happened, it must have been awful.

He examined the photo on the front page more carefully, slowing to a halt as he looked, and skimmed the newsprint. It was enough to make him feel sick.

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"Disgusting."

Ciel Phantomhive shook his copy of the Gazette, a grimace (or, as deep a grimace as such a monotonous thirteen-year-old could muster) on his pale, tired-looking features. If there was one thing that Ciel hated, it was waking up to find some depressing, macabre story sprawled across the front of the paper, and this story — this just took the cake. He heaved a sigh, picked up his teaspoon and began to stir his morning tea with a prominent air of disinterest, resting his cheek in the palm of his free hand. In the corner of the room, Sebastian smirked.

"Do you feel no sympathy for this girl? She _was_ only fourteen, it might have been Miss. Middleford."

"Of course I feel sympathetic. I _have_ seen the picture, and I think it's gross, what happened to her," Ciel responded coldly, letting his tea spin to a slow before taking a sip. "Besides, it wasn't Lizzie, was it; why would I care if it _had been_, anyway?"

Sebastian shook his head and dismissively waved a hand. "Never mind, never mind."

Ciel briefly narrowed his eyes at his butler before turning his attention back to the front page. Absently, he twirled his teaspoon in one hand, gazing down at the picture in front of him. It truly was disgusting, and somewhat bone chilling, what'd happened, even in the eyes of a fearless child such as himself. The photo portrayed, of course, the victim, a girl only a year, if that, older than Ciel. The resemblance between himself and the murder victim was quite stunning, he thought; she had dark curls to her shoulders, and her eyes — open, in the most chilling way — were the same pale colour, obviously so even in the black and white photo, icy cold and beautiful. The only difference between the two, besides gender, was the fact that Ciel was not missing half his skin.

The girl's dress had been torn open at the front, straight down the centre of her torso, leaving the torn skin exposed. A jagged rip ran its way down the middle of her ribcage, harsh and deep, at least a centimetre in depth. It wasn't a clean cut, it was dirty and rushed, like the culprit had slashed and ran — only, the girl's other wounds were not so. Branching off from the main gash, like the branches of a gnarled, twisted tree, were small, less hurried cuts, not as harsh and not as deadly; they looked similar to the cuts one would get from catching their finger on a knife blade. It was almost as though the killer had slashed at the girl's chest, then sat and carved the rest into her skin, the final, delicate touches to a cruel act of art.

The girl's throat looked as though it'd been sliced, too, as though the wounds to her torso weren't bad enough — that, too, was neat and clean, even more so than the littler ones on her chest, and it looked to Ciel as though that had been the killer's favourite part. He'd taken his time on that, for sure. The girl lay with arms flung at unnatural angles — broken beyond repair —; her face was calm, though, as though she'd simply allowed herself to be hacked at. She hadn't wanted to die in vain, probably, struggling and screaming for help. A dignified child, probably, like Ciel, himself.

A grimace crossed Ciel's face, briefly, before shaking his head, folding the paper and pushing it to the far side of his intricately elegant desk. From across the room, Sebastian lifted an eyebrow.

"Rosie Harrington, aged fourteen," he said quietly, and somehow, Ciel clung to every word. "She was a prostitute, working simply to feed her mother and five younger siblings. She had an older brother, once, too."

Ciel looked up, eyes subtly narrowed.

(Dignified, huh?)

"And you know this, how, exactly?"

Sebastian chuckled.

"Shouldn't you know by now that I know _everything_, young lord?" he moved from attention, crossing the room to where Ciel sat — he unfolded the paper, seemingly unfazed by the gory photograph on the cover, and jabbed a thin, gloved finger at the third paragraph. "It says so, right here."

Ciel glowered at his own neatly folded hands. "Right, of course."

He leant back in his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin upon them, eyes — or, rather, single visible eye — glancing upwards to meet Sebastian's. "Suppose I were to give my opinion on this murder. I know I don't usually bring personal thought into the matter when it comes to cases such as this…but what would you say if I told you, that I think it was not a human who carried out this murder? As likely it is that it was, indeed, a human who attacked this girl — I'd like to know if I'm being irrational."

Sebastian studied the paper, for a moment or two. Ciel could almost see the cogs whirring in his butler's mind, each piece of machinery inside his brain clicking together to find a solution, an answer to the question. He looked up — Ciel cocked an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"It was definitely a human who did this," Sebastian concluded with his usual air of confidence, finality. "I have not a doubt in my mind that the killer is human. If it were a demon, see," he placed the Gazette back onto his master's desk, and traced a pattern onto the photo, as though drawing a battle plan. "The wounds would all be precise, as would the blood splatters. When demons kill, they make patterns, intricately designed, almost, and leave them on the body, almost as a mark of ownership, or a trophy for their kill. In addition, the blood left behind wouldn't be so…messy. Demons have a liking for leaving things looking neat. The blood would be perfectly spread out, and it certainly wouldn't have hit the walls in such a careless manner. See?"

Ciel nearly looked impressed. "Yes, I see."

"And..?"

"…that information only unnerves me more," Ciel heaved a sigh. "To know that a human is capable of this — "

"Aa," Sebastian nodded slowly, his finger still pressed to the photograph. "I see what you mean."

Ciel ran his fingers through his hair, briefly, before rising to his feet and stepping away from his desk. His shoulders were tense, set in such a manner that he, for once, didn't look like a child, but like the real Funtom Company head. His face was sharp with a grim sort of determination, and behind his eye patch, his other eye glinted with something that might have been regret. He moved steadily, with purpose, to the door, his gaze focused on the handle; and as he passed by his butler, his _faithful_ butler, he murmured from the corner of his mouth, "Prepare the carriage, Sebastian."

Sebastian bowed his head, folding one arm across his stomach in a sweeping display of respect.

"Yes, my lord."

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Lizzie watched her reflection as Paula fixed her corset, tugging the pink ribbon into quaint little criss-cross paths up and down her lower back, somewhat transfixed by the subtly elegant way in which her dear friend and maid could do such a plain task. As Paula reached the small of her back, and began to knot the corset, she smiled at herself in the mirror, and tried to ignore how crushed her stomach felt — she knew that Paula was only doing her job, but there _really_ wasn't any need to have this tight a corset, she was slender enough without the corset. She continued to hold her arms to the side, trying to hold her frame still as Paula knotted and fastened, humming gently to herself over the sound of silk on silk.

That was when Ciel arrived.

He didn't look very happy, at all; it wasn't even the '_Lizzie-please-get-off-me-I-can't-breathe_' sort of unhappiness, either, this was something more. Almost immediately, upon his entrance, his stare flickered to her, and he let out breath, which he'd seemed to have been holding. He said nothing, which Lizzie was sort of used to, so she made the first move — dismissing Paula with a wave of her hand, she jumped down from the stool on which she'd been perched before and crossed the room with a dainty run, before throwing her arms around him and giggling some sort of flustered greeting. Her corset had probably come undone where she'd stopped holding her breath before it was completely fastened, but she didn't care, the corset could wait.

She pulled away from the hug, yet still gripping his shoulders.

"Lizzie," he said finally, and if she listened hard enough, she could hear relief laced into his tone, unfitting with his deadpan expression, "It's good to — please let go, I can't feel my arms.

She giggled, again, patting his arms and finally, unable to deny his request, letting go, and flashing a brilliant smile. "You were about to say that it's good to see me," she teased, and he simply flushed in response, turning his head away and frowning. She took him by the wrist, "Come on, talk to me while Paula fastens me all up."

Ciel grunted, and followed.

For a little while, as Paula continued to (re-)fasten the corset, Ciel stood still, his back against the boudoir wall, legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded tightly over his stomach. His eyes were closed; Lizzie watched him silently, her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips parted expectantly. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, and took a breath. "What's wrong, Ciel," she asked, her face falling into a concerned expression. "Why are you here?"

Ciel looked up at his fiancée, and she looked back.

"I just…stopped to say hello. I was passing by, on my way to a crime scene." From the doorway, Sebastian smirked. "A girl was murdered in the early hours of this morning. Sebastian and I are on our way to — "

"I heard about that," Lizzie's expression fell further. "I've seen that girl before, out and about. I was quite sorry to hear about her death, she'd come be sort of a friend. She greeted me good morning all the time and…she was so friendly. People like that don't deserve death."

Ciel held his breath.

"No-one deserves death, Lizzie," and that was a bare-faced lie.

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**outro: **part one of three, complete. bam, baby.  
>please don't leave without dropping a review. c:<p> 


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